


Countless.

by padlockandpastels



Category: Don't Hug Me I'm Scared (Webseries), dhmis - Fandom
Genre: ??? Lmao sorry I found this in my drafts, F/M, Scraped, no real ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 13:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15438546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padlockandpastels/pseuds/padlockandpastels
Summary: The first time they meet. / /found this in my drafts from a year ago, honestly have no memory of where I was going with it sorry it lowkey sucks!





	Countless.

**Author's Note:**

> idek where this was going it makes no sense

June nineteenth, **1955**. It's the day she first appeared. Past memories blurred and non-existent, she's standing in their living room in wobbling heels. She doesn't even know her own name, the yellow one made that up months on. All she knows is a goal. A preprogrammed motto. Like some painting robot.

Creativity.

It's the first thing she thinks of, but not the last.

June nineteenth, **1958**. She isn't home that day. She'd decided—she. The demon living in their house is titled Paige now. Made out of some horrific pun one night. She had walked through the door, basket of newly purchased oil paints in hand where her gaze landed on the blood splatters.

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. It didn't make sense. She had cleaned it up last time. Last week when Harry had ripped her sketchbook, that was. No. This is new.

When she heard the foot steps, she drew back, heels clicking on the wood.

He's fucking tall. That's her first thought besides the obvious. The obvious being how blue he was.

Paige inhaled sharply, blue eyes slipping over him.

He sneered gently, still focused on the crimson on the sword he has in gloved hand.

Oh. So that's where her roommates were.

When she drops the shopping bag, his eyes lift. He seemed unsure, trying to figure out how the concept fit in to this. She didn't look human. Paige never looked human to other concepts.

"Who the hell are you?" She snapped, confusion slipping into anger. Who was he, after all? Paige's dark lips pressed together. Was it a repeat of her situation last year? Perhaps. Doubtful.

She doesn't see the blade coming until it's half way trough her abdomen.

 **1960**.

They don't see eye to eye. At least with the puppets they work with her. Stay out of her way till needed. But him. Him. Tony. Doesn't shut up. He taunted her like some child. Two opposites, art and order, equals who wavered when it came to seeing eye and eye.

Or rather, occasionally, without one eye. If the ratio of how many times her pencil had ended up in his socket was anything to keep count of.

She hates him. Oh, how she does. But in a way? It's silent respect. The horrid bond they dare to share over something as vile as the suffering of the three primary colored boys who live in the attic. 

 **1962**.

They kiss for the first time that summer. It's odd. It's odd because she enjoys it, but, her feelings of Time have never shifted through this period. Hated. Wavering respect. Maybe, admiration.

They were fighting, like always. It was nearly midnight. (She knew because he loved to yell that at her when she strolled into his workshop so late.) Paige had dared to trace the lines along his coat with a butcher knife until he snapped.

It isn't romantic, it really isn't. It isn't the movies Paige's watches at three am when she can never sleep. She never pictured herself in those anyway, so perhaps it's fitting.

She's stronger than she looks. Strong enough to have a shaking grasp and struggle to push away a sword. And Tony's trying his hardest, too. He's close. He's close and he doesn't notice, pressing forward. She's backed against the cold way of the basement, toes barely strapping the ground when she gets the idea.

Distraction.

Distraction.

It certainly does it's job when she reached up and grabbed his collar to drag Tony down & to meet his lips. The woman almost laughed too, because his grip went slack. Loose enough for her to make her getaway, stab a knife through his chest and give her enough time to break away before he started coughing up blood.

 **1963**.

And that's all it was at first. A jab. She's crazy, he knows that. When the insane artist makes out with you during a fight, no one thinks there's anything behind it. Until he's kissing back.

It's nearly a year after the first time. They've kissed after that, but that's all it was. The fight never stalled. Never hesitated.

It's the first time she dared to drop her weapon.

It had just—fell.

Clattered.

She waited, dizzily pushed against the kitchen counter. Waited for the sting of a blade. Something. But it didn't come. A hand fell on her waist. Sudden enough to make her flinch.


End file.
